28. OLIRA
28
OLIRA
Olira lay in her bed, staring at the ceiling as she did on that bitter night three days ago. But tonight, it wasn’t the cold keeping her awake. The farmhouse was warm, the fire in the hearth in the living area still crackling softly, but sleep kept its distance from her. It was the sound of the purebred, his voice low and troubled, that kept her from finding rest.
“No… please, don’t…” he murmured, his voice trembling in the dark. It was barely more than a whisper, but in the silence of the room, it sounded like a shout. Olira stiffened, trying to block out the sound, but the desperation in his tone was impossible to ignore.
It had been three days since Frostbringer’s Eve. Three nights since she had settled the man on the floor in the corner of her room. In that time, she and her four brothers had worked tirelessly, planting seeds for the last harvest before winter set in. She had put the man to work alongside them.
Andar and Kowas were obsessively fascinated with the purebred. Gilann and Torren kept their distance from the slave, wary and watchful. But the twins were drawn to him like moths to a flame. Olira had spent more time chasing them away than actually working, though as the days passed, she found herself less worried. The purebred seemed harmless enough, focused solely on his tasks, keeping his head down and interacting with no one. He completely ignored the twins’ attempts at talking to him and didn’t even look at them.
The slave hardly used his crutch anymore, though he still limped. The work seemed to be doing him good, helping him regain his strength. And it was helping Olira too. Although the slave was slow and unsure about farm work, his contribution was going to make a difference. She was even starting to get used to the man’s quiet presence.
But now, in the quiet of the night, with nothing to distract her, Olira was once again confronted by doubt about the slave. His sleep was restless, his voice filled with fear as he begged and whimpered in his dreams.
“No… Please… Don’t do this…”
Olira squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will herself to sleep, to ignore the pitiful sounds coming from the corner. It wasn’t her problem. She had already done more for him than most would have. But despite her best efforts, the sound of his pleading voice gnawed at her.
She rolled over, pulling the blankets tighter around herself, her thoughts wandering to the idea that had been forming in her mind for days. Perhaps it was time to give him his own space in the house, somewhere other than the floor of her room. There was a small walk-in cupboard down the hall, barely large enough to stand in, but it could be converted into a tiny room. A place for him to sleep without disturbing anyone else.
“Please… run… please…”
Olira’s eyes snapped open. She turned her head toward the man, her brow furrowed in confusion. Had she just heard him correctly? Run? The word hung in the air, making the hair on her skin prick up.
She propped herself on her elbow, her eyes locked on the man’s large form, shrouded in blankets on the floor. He continued whimpering, “please, don’t do this, please,” stirring and flinching helplessly, but didn’t repeat that word again.
Olira felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold. Something about that word unsettled her and invited that doubt she had just defeated back in. The slave had passed all the tests Mistress Aeliana had suggested, but Olira had just thought of one more test.
One she deep down hoped he would fail.
Olira stepped out of the farmhouse with purpose. The morning sun was casting long shadows across the yard. Her boots crunched lightly on the dirt path as she moved quickly. Slung over her shoulder was a half-full sack.
She could smell the scent of damp earth on the soft breeze and see the rain clouds gathering on the horizon. They were still hours away. Her brothers were already in the fields, finishing the last tasks before the rain came. She could hear their voices in the distance, Andar and Kowas arguing over something insignificant, and Gilann barking at them to get to work.
She rounded the corner and caught sight of the purebred at the back, chopping wood, as he was asked to do every morning. His shirt was off, revealing crisscrossed, uneven scars, faded white against his tanned skin. He had countless other scars, and Olira had no intention of taking inventory of each mark that told a story of pain and survival. She couldn’t even stomach imagining how he must have received those jagged lacerations that ran from his side across his ribs, or those clearly intentional burn marks on his chest.
What struck her the most was the way he always pulled his shirt back on when someone was nearby. She would have thought he was self-conscious about his scars if she hadn’t known him any better. She attributed it to his discipline or a show of respect; something he was trained to do around his Owner. That was fine with her.
As she drew closer, his head snapped up. He set down the axe against the chopping block, reached for his shirt and pulled it over his head, covering the marks on his chest and back. The action was quick, almost without thought. He stood with his hands clasped in front of him, his head down.
Olira didn’t comment. She simply said, “Follow me. Bring your crutch.” Then she turned on her heel and headed towards the root cellar.
The slave limped after her without a word, his crutch tapping lightly against the ground with each step. He didn’t even need it these days, but Olira made him carry it with him just in case, to avoid aggravating his leg.
The root cellar was dim and cool, a stark contrast to the mild morning outside. The scent of earth and stored provisions filled the air as Olira stepped inside. She motioned the slave to follow, then she handed him the sack she had brought.
“Keep it open,” she instructed.
The slave set his crutch against the wall and held the sack open with both hands. His gaze flicked briefly inside, taking in the spare clothes, blankets, and waterskin neatly packed at the bottom. Olira began filling the rest of the sack with food: dried meats, hard bread, a small wheel of cheese, and a few apples. She filled the bag to the brim. Enough food to last a grown man for an entire week. Two, if he was careful. Then she tied the sack securely and handed it back to him.
“Come with me,” she said, leading him back out of the cellar.
The purebred slung the bag over his shoulder, retrieved his crutch, and followed her.
Olira led him across the farmyard and towards the edge of the woods. The sun had risen higher in the sky, the rain clouds in the distance growing darker, but the weather remained mild for the moment. Still hours until that rain hit.
They reached the edge of the woods. The trees were dressed in shades of yellow, orange, and red, their leaves covering the ground like an autumn-coloured blanket. Sunlight peeked through the thinning branches, and the air carried the scent of fallen leaves and damp soil. Olira stopped, turning to face the man. She could feel the tension in her chest, the weight of the decision she was about to make pressing down on her.
“There’s a small clearing in the woods,” she said, her voice steady, but tinged with something she couldn’t quite name. “You’ll find it if you head straight in and keep going until you see a massive rock. It’s impossible to miss. I want you to go there and sit for a bit.”
The purebred glanced at her, his expression unreadable as ever. He waited, expecting more instructions.
“That’s all,” Olira said. “Off you go.” She didn’t tell him to return, nor did she tell him to leave for good. She was mindful to keep her instructions as vague as possible, open to any interpretation. Not a command, but an invitation. A choice for him to make.
The slave blinked. His eyebrows twitched as he looked ahead at the dense woods that stretched before him. Though his face was as expressionless as always, his body went rigid, as if alarmed. He glanced in her direction again.
“Go!” Olira said harshly, pointing at the woods.
The purebred looked at her a moment longer, then turned toward the woods. With the sack slung over his shoulder and his crutch in hand, he limped forward, his pace slow but steady. Olira watched him go, the figure of the man growing smaller as he made his way into the trees.
Olira stood there, rooted to the spot with goosebumps on her arms. She didn’t know if he would return or if he would take the opportunity she had given him to escape. Her last test to prove that the man before her had no desire or will. No heart or mind or rhoa of his own.
She walked back home. Despite how much she needed him, and how her family’s future depended on him, she deep down hoped the slave would just escape.